The confession hits me square in the chest. Christ, she just says things. Sweet and devastating. Her honesty cuts deeper than any practiced line.
“Oh God.” Pink floods her cheeks. “Too much. I’m terrible at the after-sex conversation part.”
Most women I’ve been with would never admit that. They’d play it cool and try to keep me guessing. But Georgie just opens her mouth and the truth falls out, gift-wrapped in that nervous laugh of hers.
I press my lips to her forehead, breathing her in: the smell of her shampoo in her hair, her soap on her skin, and underneath it all, just her. “Don’t ever apologize for being honest with me.”
We lie there in silence, breathing the same air. Her heart beats against my ribs, still racing. Mine’s no better. My body’s still humming from what we just did.
I can feel her thinking. Her fingers pick up speed on my chest, tracing anxious patterns. Her breathing hitches, steadies, hitches again.
“Patrick?” she says in a small voice. “What’s happening between us? I mean… what is this?”
The question I’ve been avoiding since the boat trip.
“I don’t know.”
Bullshit.
I know exactly what this is.
I’m falling for Jake’s sister. This sweet, earnest, terrible-at-games woman who says exactly what she’s thinking and feels everything so deeply it shows on her skin.
And there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop it.
TWENTY-NINE
Fairies need feeding
Georgie
I wake up inPatrick McLaren’s arms.
His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek. I can hear all the inner workings of Mount Patrick rumbling away in there. His hand claims my hip even in sleep, fingers spread possessively, and his breath stirs my hair in deep, steady waves.
This might be what heaven feels like.
I tilt my head carefully—trying not to wake him—and get an immediate noseful of armpit. The entire wilderness, right here, two inches from my face.
Is it concerning that I’m voluntarily sniffing Patrick’s armpit and finding it attractive? I inhale again. That’s my answer.
And I, Georgie Fitzgerald, am still alive after an entire night with him. Still breathing. Still got all my limbs.
Istayed over.
That specific brand of morning-after panic starts in my chest. What’s the etiquette here? Do I… sneak off? Wake him up to say goodbye? Pretend I’m casual about this? I’ve never been casual about anything in my life.
I begin the delicate process of extracting myself one millimeter at a time. Roll the shoulder, slide the leg, maintain steady breathing patterns. Don’t wake the sleeping beast.
Except the beast tightens his arm across my waist, pulling me back against him.
“Don’t even think about it.” His voice is sleep-rough, his eyes still shut.
“Think about what?”
“Sneaking off.”
“I wasn’t! I was just… stretching.”
